THE  SECRET  WAY 


By 
ZONA    GALE 


BIRTH 

CHRISTMAS 
MOTHERS  TO  MEN 
HEART'S  KINDRED 
FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 
NEIGHBORHOOD   TALES 
PEACE  IN  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 
WHEN  I  WAS  A  LITTLE  GIRL 
FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE  LOVE  STORIES 
THE  LOVES  OP  PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE 


Copyrighted  by  E.  O.  Hoppg 


THE  SECRET  WAY 


BY 

ZONA   GALE 


gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1921 

All  rights  reserved 


FEINTED  IN   THE  UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  printed.     Published  September,  1921. 


' 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


"A  great  life,  an  entire  civilization  lies  just 
outside  the  pale  of  common  thought.  .  .  .  Such 
life  is  different  from  any  yet  imagined.  ...  I 
see  as  clearly  as  the  noonday  that  this  is  not  all. 
I  see  other  and  higher  conditions  than  existence. 
.  .  .  The  very  idea  that  there  is  another  Idea  is 
something  gained." 

— RICHABD  JEFFBIES. 


488903 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
(EARLY  VERSE) 

PAGE 

THE  SECRET  WAY      .     .     *     *     .     .     .     ._.      4 

TERZA  RIMA: 

I  OLD  TALK 8 

II  MAGIC 11 

III  NIGHT  is  HERE     .*'.....  13 

BALLADES  OF  THREE  SENSES  : 

I  BALLADE  OF  EYES  THAT  SEE  ...  14 

II  BALLADE  OF  LISTENING    .      .  ...  16 

III  BALLADE  OF  OLD  PERFUMES  .  .     .     .  18 

HALF  THOUGHTS  .      .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .       20 

SONNETS  AND  VARIATIONS  : 

WHEN  DID  SPRING  DIE?  .....  22 
ONE  DAWN  SHE  AWOKE  ME  .  .  .  .  23 
THERE  ARE  WITHIN  Us  LIVES  WE 

NEVER  LIVE 24 

LAST  NIGHT   I   DREAMED  I   SAW   MY 

MOTHER  YOUNG 25 

WHY  AM  I  SILENT? 26 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAQH 

I  WANDERED  WHERE  THE  WONDER  OF 

THE  SKY — '  .     .  27 

HERE  A  HILL  FIELD 28 

RETURN      .      .     .     .     .     .     ...     .  29 

BY  MY  SIDE  ALL  DAY  ANOTHER  WENT  30 

IN  J.  P.  P.'s  METRE: 

I    ............  31 

II     ......'......  32 

III   (To  A  POET) 33 

EXERCISE  IN  SPENSERIANS    .     .     .     .     .     .  35 

PART  II 

I  KNOW  WHERE  A  DOVE 51 

PROLOCUTOR     .      .      .     ....     .     .     .  52 

WONDER 53 

A  MEETING 54 

HALF  THOUGHT 55 

EPITAPHS 56 

ALIAS '  .     .    , .     .  57 

IN  ARVIA'S  ROOM 58 

HALF  THOUGHT 64 

UMBRA       , 65 

WRAITHS    . 66 

[viii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

HALF  THOUGHT    .     .     ........  67 

WIND  SONG 68 

HALF  THOUGHT 70 

TROTH  . 71 

BELOVED,  IT  Is  DAYBREAK  ON  THE  HILLS  .  72 

CREDO    ,     .     ...'..     .     .     .     .     .  73 

WHO  Is  THIS  THAT  Is  So  NEAR?  ....  74 

INMOST  ONE 75 

STONE   CELL 77 

LIGHT 78 

HALF  THOUGHT 81 

CONTOURS 82 

PART  III 

NEWS  NOTES  OF  PORTAGE,  WISCONSIN  : 

I  KILBOURN  ROAD   .     .  •  .     .     .     .     .  85 

II  VIOLIN        .........  91 

III  NORTH  STAR 96 

PROSE  NOTES  : 

THE  BUREAU 98 

MINUET 99 

THE  DINING  ROOM 101 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PARADISE  AND  PURGATORY    .      ..     .     .  103 

AT  LEAST  .........  105 

ROSES    .      .'.'.'.'.'.*     .     .  106 

SPRING  EVENING  .......  109 

SECOND  LIGHT      .     .     .     .     .     .     .  Ill 

DOES  SOMETHING  WAIT?     ...     .  113 

DOORS    .      .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  114 

LEVITATION 116 

ENCHANTMENT      .     .     .  118 


PART  I 


EARLY  VERSE 

THE  SECRET  WAY 

Stark  on  the  window's  early  grey 
Lined  out  in  squares  by  casement  bars, 

She  saw  her  lily  lift  to  take 
The  sinking  stars. 

Within  the  room's  delaying  dark 
Intimate  things  lay  dim  and  still 

With  all  their  day-time  friendliness 
Gone  false  and  chill. 

Her  hand  upon  the  coverlet, 
Her  face  low  in  the  linen's  cleft, 

They  were  as  wan  as  water-flowers 
By  light  bereft. 

And  never  was  bloom  brought  to  her  couch 
But  shed  the  odour  of  a  sigh 
[3] 


Because  she  was  as  white  as  they, 
And  they  must  die. 

"0  Pale,  lit  deep  within  the  dark 
Of  your  young  eyes,  a  stifled  light 

Leaps  thin  and  keen  as  melody 
And  leavens  night. 

"It  is  a  light  that  did  not  burn 
When  you  were  gay  at  mart  and  fair ; 

O  Pale,  what  is  that  starry  fire, 
Fed  unaware?" 

Then  softly  she:  "I  may  not  tell 
What  other  eyes  behold  in  mine; 

But  I  have  melted  night  and  day 
In  some  wild  wine. 

"I  may  not  read  the  graven  cup 
Exhaustless  as  a  brimming  bell 

Distilling  silver;  but  I  drank 
And  all  is  well. 

M 


"One  morn  like  this,  bitter  still, 

I  waited  for  the  early  stir 
Of  those  who  slept  the  while  I  watched 

What  muffled  wonders  were. 

"I  saw  my  lily  on  the  sill; 

I  saw  my  mirror  on  the  wall 
Take  light  that  was  not;  and  I  saw 

My  spectral  taper  tall. 

"Why  I  had  known  these  quiet  things 
Since  I  could  speak.     Yet  suddenly 

They  all  touched  hands  and  in  one  breath 
They  spoke  to  me. 

"I  may  not  tell  you  what  they  said. 

The  strange  part  is  that  I  must  lie 
And  never  tell  you  what  we  say 

These  things  and  I. 

"I  only  know  that  common  things 
Bear  sudden  little  spirits  set 

Free  by  the  rose  of  dawn  and  by 
Night's  violet. 

[5] 


"I  only  know  that  when  I  hear 

Clear  tone,  the  haunted  echoes  bear 

Legions  of  little  winged  feet 
On  printless  air. 

"And  when  warm  colour  weds  my  look 
A  word  is  uttered  tremblingly, 

With  meaning  fall — but  I  know  not 
What  it  may  be. 

"I  only  know  that  now  I  find 
Abiding  beauty  everywhere; 

Or  if  it  bide  not,  that  it  fades 
Is  still  more  fair. 

I  long  to  question  those  I  love 
And  yet  I  know  not  what  to  say ; 

I  am  alone  as  one  upon 
Some  secret  way. 

"My  words  are  barren  of  my  bliss; 

The  strange  part  is  that  I  must  lie 
And  never  tell  you  what  we  say — 

These  things  and  I. 
[6] 


"So  will  it  be  when  I  am  not. 

A  little  more  perhaps  to  tell ; 
Yet  then  as  now  I  may  not  say 

What  I  know  well." 

She  died  when  all  the  east  was  red. 

And  we  are  they  who  know  her  fate 
Because  we  love  the  way  of  life 

That  she  had  found  too  late. 


TERZA  EIMA 
I:    OLD  TALK 

Old  Eyelot  sees  what  never  is. 

She  says :    "Pale  lights  move  on  the  hill, 

Deep  in  the  air  are  treasuries." 

She  says :     "I  never  go  to  mill 
Wood-way  but  something  walks  with  me, 
So  go  wood-way  I  always  will. 

Wood-walking,  I  go  mad  to  see 
What  will  die  out  just  as  I  turn 
To  catch  it  by  the  crooked  tree. 

I  pass  the  bush  that  I  saw  burning 
With  wild  black  flame  at  full  of  moon. 
That  was  a  sight  to  set  one  learning 

What  things  one  merely  doubts  at  noon. 
A-well,  I  know  not  what  I  learned. 
God  send  that  you  may  learn  it  soon. 
[8] 


Windows  for  walls,  thoughts  that  have  turned 

Back  into  folk,  gateways  of  horn, 

And  the  wild  hearts  that  men  have  burned, 

These  things  I  see.    And  ay,  one  morn 
I  saw  the  little  people  bear 
Away  my  little  child  new-born. 

They  gave  her  food  yielded  in  air, 

Honey  and  rose-down. 

I  looked  and  she  was  very  fair. 

So  when  the  people  of  the  town 
(Who  did  not  know)  believed  her  dead 
And  wrapped  her  in  a  cloudy  gown 

I  did  not  mourn.    I  only  said : 
"She  is  the  daughter  of  the  Day 
And  with  the  Night  she  has  been  wed. 

"I  am  the  mother  of  that  one 

Born  for  two  worlds.   And  I  am  she 

Who  sees  more  things  than  moon  and  sun 

And  little  stars  will  ever  see." 
*     *     * 

[9] 


Old  Eyelot  sees  what  never  is. 

She  says :  "Green  lights  move  on  the  leas, 

Deep  in  the  air  are  treasuries." 

I  wonder  what  old  Eyelot  sees? 


[10] 


II :    MAGIC 

An  ancient  wildwood  showed  its  heart  to  me. 
(0  Little  Wind  that  brought  me  what  it  said !) 
I  went  within  its  great  nave  reverently. 

There  dwelt  the  silence  ever  lightly  wed 

With  winged  sound.     There  the  persuading  green 

Took  ancient  citadels  with  soundless  tread. 

Was  not  the  opening  blue  of  buds  between 

Soft  solitary  leaves  a  lyric  set 

To  music  of  the  things  that  lift  and  lean? 

My  hands  were  mother-tender  of  the  net 
Of  silk  they  found.    My  feet  were  light 
To  loose  no  dew  from  the  least  violet. 

The  fragile  fabric  of  dissolved  night 
Seemed  in  the  air.     A  million  little  minds 
Kept  concert  in  the  very  realm  of  sight. 


0 —  and  suddenly  as  sunlight  finds 

White  towers  I  heard  the  ancient  wood  unfold 

Its  ancient  secret  piped  by  little  winds. 

"Behold  the  beauty  in  me.     O  behold 
The  beauty  that  makes  utter  peace,  in  me ; 
Beauty  that  is  immeasurably  old." 

The  whole  world  like  a  bell  heard  echoingly. 
Words  wonderful !    I  found  a  fairy  bed 
And  saw  that  which  the  wildwood  let  me  see. 
(O  Little  Wind  that  brought  me  what  it  said!) 


[12] 


Ill:   NIGHT  Is  HEBE 

Night  is  here  and  star-rise 
And  demeanour  of  the  dark. 
Yisioned  by  my  closed  eyes 

Now  I  lie  within  an  arc. 
Lyric  loom, 

All  the  silence  is  a-hark 

For  a  poppy  bud  to  bloom 
In  some  flowery  harmony 
Woven  through  this  quiet  room. 

Prick  of  light  and  shadow  take  me, 
Fire  and  stars  and  voices  keep, 
Fairy  clamour  will  not  wake  me  .  . 
.  .  .  Sleep.. 

But  that  warm  grave  of  sleep 
Nothing  save  myself  immures. 
Singing  light  and  dreaming  deep 
Now  my  spirit  walks  with  yours. 
[13] 


BALLADES  OF  THREE  SENSES 


BALLADE  OF  EYES  THAT  SEE 

Leaves  loosened  when  there  blow 
No  winds ;  long  fields  whose  green 
Dim  beneath  the  darling  bow 
Of  the  May-moon  is  seen; 
Robins  at  dawn;  the  keen 
Sour  odour  of  vines — these  show 
Erail  meanings  caught  between 
The  bourne  of  yes  and  no. 
Yet  there  is  tender  art 
To  fathom  what  they  mean, 
Deep  in  the  heart. 

I  go  among  them.     Now  I  lean 
Where  willows  fret  the  flow 
Of  water  that  has  been 
[14] 


For  miles  to  glean. 
And  in  the  osiers —  O 
An  ouphe,  an  elfin  queen. 
I  did  not  see  her — lo, 
The  osiers  did  not  part, 
Yet  she  was  there  I  ween, 
Deep  in  the  heart. 

Envoy 

Spells,  lay  upon  the  screen 
The  things  that  move  me  so. 
I  ask  the  better  part: 
To  see  with  eyes  serene 
What  things  these  others  know- 
Deep  in  the  heart. 


[15] 


II 

BALLADE  OF  LISTENING 

On  summer  slopes  lit  white 
With  old  desire  of  day, 
The  air  with  pearl  hedight 
Prepares  for  gold  array. 
The  sun-drugged  stars  delay 
To  die;  the  winds  take  fright 
And  question,  and  betray 
Frail  sounds  for  my  delight. 
O  voice  of  ancient  springs! 
0  little  echo-flight ! 
0  harp  of  things! 

In  grasses  that  lie  bright, 
In  grasses  that  lie  grey, 
Up  on  the  clouded  height 
Down  in  the  zone  of  May 
[16] 


Are  printless  feet  astray. 
Airy  the  hands  that  smite 
The  lyre  in  nameless  lay; 
And  the  great  gods  invite 
Echo  of  earth  chantings 
On  quiet  wing  away. 
O — harp  of  things! 

Envoy 

Harp,  is  it  this  that  you  say  ? 
"Delicate  is  my  might, 
Quickening  the  voice  that  sings; 
For  I  am  sense  grown  fey. 
I  am  word  of  the  morn  and  the  night." 
0  harp  of  things! 


[17] 


Ill 

BALLADE  OF  OLD  PERFUMES 

E"ow  out  of  dream  old  springs 
Flow  soft  with  many  red 
And  golden  fluttering  things. 
Sweetly  from  underhead 
All  the  wan  air  is  fed 
With  faint  rememberings 
Of  hours  long  buried. 
Rose-rumours  steal  and  stir; 
They  come  on  wind-like  wings. 
The  old  odours  that  were 
!N"ard  and  mint  and  myrrh. 

I  think  that  as  there  clings 
Colour  to  blossoms  shed, 
So  love  and  all  that  sings, 
So  hearts  that  beat  and  bled 
[18] 


Were  with  old  fragrance  wed. 
'Now  when  the  garden  flings 
On  many  a  secret  thread 
Sweets  to  the  wanderer, 
Some  buried  witch-bell  rings 
The  old  odours  that  were 
Nard  and  mint  and  myrrh. 

Envoy 

Spring,  let  me  lay  my  head 
Where  the  wild  season  sings 
Some   dead   girl's   heart   from  her. 
0  young  heart,  ages  dead, 
Old  odours  thrill  mute  strings. 
The  old  odours  that  were 
and  mint  and  myrrh. 


[19] 


HOKKU 

The  way  that  shadow  fell  along  the  floor ! 
I  too  have  waited  for  a  shadow. 


HOKKU 

Two  butterflies.     Two  birds.     O  the  wide  night 

of  space. 
Sweet,  hold  me  close. 


HOKKU 

Yellow  I  see  is  my  close  friend. 
She  can  create  a  sun. 


HOKKU 

I  would  have  stayed  the  dawn  down  the  dark  sky. 
But  there  were  many  dawns. 

[20] 


HOKKU 

A  child's  faint  cry.    But  you  and  I  have  had 
A  birth  since  birth.    Only  there  was  no  cry. 

HOKKU 

A  candle  flame.    My  love  has  put  it  out. 
It  did  not  know  its  bliss.    Shall  I,  in  death  ? 

HOKKU 

Cloths,  fans,  stones  slumberous,  colour  and  fancy 

and  lilt- 
No  hard  straight  place  to  be.    O  quiet  sky. 

HOKKU 

I  made  a  garden.     Afterward  it  died. 
It  never  even  knew  it  was  a  garden. 


[21] 


SONNETS  AND  VARIATIONS 

WHEN  DID  SPKING  DIE? 

When  did  Spring  die  ?    I  did  not  see  her  go 
Down  the  bright  lane  she  painted.    All  flower-still 
She  moved  among  her  emblems  on  the  hill 
Touching  away  their  burden  of  old  snow. 
Was  it  on  some  great  down  where  long  winds  flow 
That  the  wild  spirit  of  Spring  went  out  to  fill 
The  eyes  of  Summer?    Did  a  daffodil 
Lift  the  pale  urn  remote  where  she  lies  low  ? 

0  not  as  other  moments  did  she  die, 
That  woman-season  outlined  like  a  rose. 
Before  the  banner  of  Autumn's  scarlet  lx>ugh 
The  Summer  fell ;  and  Winter  with  a  cry 
Wed  with  March  wind.     Spring  did  not  die  like 

those 
But  vaguely,  as  if  Love  had  prompted:     Now. 

[22] 


ONE  DAWN  SHE  WOKE  ME 

One  dawn  she  woke  me  when  the  darkness  lay 

Faint  on  the  Summer  fields.     The  air 

Was  like  a  question.     Green  was  grey 

With  dew  distilled  in  delitesence  where 

Covert,    the    night-folk     wrought.       She     said: 

"Dear  one, 

It  is  our  holiday."    Forth  we  went 
Finding  new  kindred,  new  bequest  of  sun, 
Inheriting  again  the  firmament. 

Long  ago  .   .   . 

The  old  years  lie  upon  her  grave  like  flowers. 

The  alchemy  of  hours 

Has  made  me  someone  whom  she  would  not  know. 

How  strangely  that  frail  morning  lives  and  towers 

When  I  am  other  and  when  she  lies  low. 


[23] 


THERE  ARE  WITHIN  US  LIVES  WE 
NEVER  LIVE 

There  are  within  us  lives  we  never  live 
By  sense  or  soul,  for  being  does  not  know 
To  tell  their  depth  or  breast  their  flow 
Or  to  taste  the  sweetness  that  they  give. 
And  now  in  distance,  now  in  voices  still, 
In  pity  or  in  harmony,  in  sleep, 
We  lead  unconscious  lives,  old,  deep, 
Upon  the  far  slope  of  an  unknown  hill. 

Is  it  not  here  that  life  walks  wreathed  at  last? 

Many  a  soul  meets  many  a  soul  with  this : 

That  muted  lips  and  wistful  eyes  are  passed 

In  silence;  yet  a  sign  there  is 

Burning  in  air,  though  but  a  shadow  fall 

Or  some  pale  sunbeam  steal  along  the  wall. 

[24] 


LAST  NIGHT  I  DEEAMED  I  SAW  MY 
MOTHEE  YOUNG 

Last  night  I  dreamed  I  saw  my  mother  young. 
I  never  knew  her  till  her  hair  was  grey ; 
Last  night  I  saw  the  shadows  lit  away 
And  pearls  about  her  shoulders  strung. 
Out  from  our  haunts  of  home  among 
She  came  as  if  she  knew  them  not.     There  lay 
Old  hope  in  her  young  eyes.     And  gay 
Her  speech  came  in  some  laughing  tongue. 

I  who  had  watched  the  stolen  march  of  days 
And  would  not  see  the  theft  which  was  their  sign 
Moved  happily  to  meet  her,  mute  with  praise 
For  this  the  witchery  that  made  her  fair. 
But  yet  the  pretty  hand  that  lay  in  mine 
Was  not  the  one  I  love  upon  my  hair. 

[25] 


WHY  AM  I  SILENT? 

Why  am  I  silent  ?    Tell  me  how  to  speak 

With  all  the  sweet  familiars  of  the  way ; 

Call  Summer  by  her  name;  and  with  the  Day 

Walk  royally  companioned  cheek  on  cheek 

For  that  faint  speech  awhile  withheld,  that  weak 

Task  of  the  Word  undone  is  the  great  Nay, 

The  winged  thunder  that  denies  the  ray. 

Yet  once  when  first  I  saw  the  hapless  Greek 

By  present  impulse  of  the  god  urged  on 

Seek  out  the  shadow  of  the  awful  grove, 

I  felt  the  word.     I  caught  it  once  again 

In  a  sweet  flash  of  arrowy  sun  that  shone 

Thickening  on  flowers.     But  when 

You  sorrowed,  Love, 

I  knew  it  then.  .  .  . 

[26] 


I  WANDERED  WHERE  THE  WONDER 
OF  THE  SKY 

I  wandered  where  the  wonder  of  the  sky 
Was  wide  upon  me.    Isle  beyond  isle  the  east 
Was  signing  that  the  Summer  night  had  ceased 
Upon  the  dawn.     Then  came  a  stranger  by 
Immersed  in  the  magic  as  was  I. 
We  stood  together  at  the  sorcerer's  feast 
Saying  half-words;  and  as  the  day  increased 
We  parted  with  a  farewell  almost  shy. 

Something  was  there.     There  was  drawn  silently 

Through  into  life  some  fiery,  clouded  thing. 

O  wise 

For  one  sweet  flash  of  time  we  stood  to  see 

Death  and  the  Inbeing 

Lie  dreaming  in  each  other's  eyes. 

[27] 


HEEE  A  STILL  FIELD 

Here  a  still  field.    I  move  within  the  green, 
It  lies  aloof.    Look  where  I  will 
The  steady  glory  of  noon  on  the  hill 
Lays  its  divine  indifference  on  the  scene. 
I  seem  too  far.    I  listen  and  I  lean, 
Yet  never  will  the  burying  hours  fulfill 
One  hope  of  nearness  to  the  Far  and  Still, 
But  wound  me  with  the  sweet  that  they  might 
mean. 

Is  there  no  keener  speech  for  us  than  this 
Old  incommunicable  urge  to  know 
The  speech  of  silence.  .  .  .  Yes — here  a  still  field ! 
What  more — what  more  ?   For  here  the  Comrade  is, 
The  God  who  waits  alone  and  would  have  sealed 
Our  compact  with  glad  laughter  long  ago. 

[28] 


KETUKN 

How  they  come  back   ...   I  never  see  retreat 
Down  the  long  beach  the  phalanx  of  bright  foam 
But  faint  across  the  fields  that  fold  them  home 
I  hear  the  rhythmic  fall  of  speeding  feet. 
And  they  who  loved  the  garden  of  the  sea 
And  died,  come  back.    I  never  know  a  land 
Of  cities  but  there  come  to  me 
Their  dead  to  touch  my  hand. 

Dead,  who  dare  not  let  your  eyes 

Flower  from  the  dusk  and  flame  into  our  own, 

Yet  come  you  as  hushed  notes  in  harmonies 

To  ways  of  life  that  you  have  known : 

Virgil  in  blowing  spray  round  swift-prowed  ships, 

Dante  in  every  cry  of  lips  for  lips. 


[29] 


BY  MY  SIDE  ALL  DAY  ANOTHER  WENT 

By  my  side  all  day  another  went. 

We  breathed  the  cold  spiced  air  of  the  Spring  dark 

Before  the  dawn ;  together  at  the  hark 

Of  noon  we  listened;  and  we  bent 

To  borrow  from  still  grasses  the  warm  scent 

Of  afternoon  and  dusk.     We  stood  to  mark 

The  deathless  ark 

Unveiled  before  the  light  was  spent. 

Prodigal  of  sweetness  that  old  day 

I  passed,  nor  might 

See  how  that  one  beside  me  stooped  to  lay 

Something  aside.     Now  in  the  night 

The  gleaner  hunts  me  down 

Bringing  regret.    I  wear  it  for  a  crown. 


[30] 


J.  P.  P.'s  METRE 


Here  a  vine,  there  a  voice, 
Then  a  violin ; 
All  the  quiet  is  astir 
Like  a  flute  within. 

Here  a  light,  there  a  leaf, 
Little  boughs  that  lean ; 
And  the  people  who  move  by 
Wonder  what  they  mean. 

"Look,"  they  say,  "there  a  star 
Watching  in  a  well; 

Line  and  green  and  melody 

Then  they  try  to  tell. 


O  why  ask  what  they  mean? 
What  is  there  to  win  ? 
Have  we  not  the  light,  the  leaf 
And  the  violin? 

[31] 


II 

All  the  air  is  liveried 

In  a  kind  of  white ; 

It  is  not  like  the  darkness 

Or  the  light; 

It  is  like  the  covenant 

Of  a  clearer  sight. 

Now  a  sudden  bud  is  born 

Burning  in  the  dew ; 

There  the  fog  rose  palely  lifting 

All  as  if  it  knew 

The  faint  flowing  speech 

Of  the  friendly  blue. 

Oh  the  little  hurrying  wing 

Like  a  blowing  leaf ; 

Oh  the  shadows  gathering  in 

Many  a  sheaf; 

There  a  cloud  is  carved  like  some 

Airy  coral  reef. 

[32] 


Like  a  new  sense  these  venture 
In  the  veins  and  lo, 
All  the  hlood  is  musical 
In  its  heat  and  flow ; 
And  we  wait  wondering 
What  new  thing  we  know. 

ni 

TO  A  POET 

Woo  a  little  choir  of  words, 

Teach  them  to  sing; 

Let  them  thrill  the  air  like  hirds 

Love-summoning. 

Thread  the  silence  with  a  lute, 

Sound  the  spiral  of  a  flute. 

.   .    .  Yain,  hut  vain.     The  words  are  mute. 

Open  now  your  own  heart 
Where  a  rose  may  he; 
Live  your  love  and  use  your  art, 
Make  melody, 

For  your  joy,  your  joy  is  there, 
£33] 


Sing  the  secret  thing  you  bear ! 
.    .    .  Only  silence  everywhere. 

.  .  .  Show  the  ancient  pain  that  lies 

With  remembered  things 

Down  the  dark  within  your  eyes 

Where  nothing  sings. 

Now  at  last  there  throng 

Images  that  waited  long, 

And  the  silence  flowers  in  song. 


[34] 


EXEECISE  IN  SPENSEKIANS 

The  air  is  purged  of  gold  and  in  its  stead 
Is  poured  a  fire  of  silver  on  the  green ; 
And  now  the  moon  new-risen  from  the  dead 
Of  dearer  nights  than  this  finds  her  demesne 
Lonely  of  stars,  as  they  to  greet  their  queen 
Had  rushed  in  argent  riot  from  the  blue 
To  spill  themselves  like  flowers  or  waste  un 
seen 

In  stealing  perfumes  that  elude  and  woo 
As  now  eludes  now  woos  the  wind  the  sweet  night 
through. 

Down  from  her  turret  when  the  dusk  was  new 
The  Lady  Margot  stepped  and  lured  by  wile 
Of  faint  near  things  that  croon  of  what  they 

do 
With  wandering  touch  she  thought  to  walk 

the  while 

[35] 


The  hours  were  printless  on  the  idle  dial. 
Deep  in  a  garden  lamped  with  lily  bells 
Which  hold  the  light  as  does  some  opal  vial 
She  took  her  way  near  where  a  fountain  wells 
And  wakes  its  rainbow  ribbons  into  madrigals. 

Fluttering    she    peered    within    the    hollow 

gloom 

That  cloistered  a  wild  wood  beyond  the  wall ; 
For  shapes  are  woven  by  the  troubled  loom 
Of  night;  and  tremulous  tapestries  oft  fall 
Across  familiar  paths  and  make  them  all 
Astir  with  effigies  that  snarl  and  grin 
And  take  strange  steps  along  a  horrid  hall 
Which  is  by  day  a  lane  of  leaves  within ; 
As  if  at  night  a  holy  nun  should  dream  of  sin. 

At  length  she  reached  a  little  windless  glade 
Fragrant  with  natal  April  not  long  flown 
And  dreamful  of  the  days  when  lips  were  laid 
On  lips  that  trembled  as  they  found  their  own. 
There  where  the  mooned  close  was  thickest 

sown 

[36] 


With  shadows  was  the  lady  met  with  one 
Who  sat  with  drooping  head  and  made  soft 

moan. 

He  was  a  stranger  knight  whose  armour  shone 
Bright  as  the  molten  golden  javelins  of  the  sun. 

"What  things  are  griefs?"  the  Lady  Margot 

sighed 

And  moved  a  little  nearer  pityingly. 
"The  wonder  wasteth  from  my  days,"  he 

cried, 

"The  burden  of  my  blessings  wearieth  me! 
Lo  I  have  journeyed  from  an  unoared  sea 
In  the  white  north  to  where  the  winds  caress 
Warm  sail-sown  oceans  murmuring  round  a 

key 
Odorous  with  wine  and    fruit    in    fragrant 

dress 

And  yet  I  passion  for  some  little  happiness." 

"Ay,  now,"  the  lady  cried,  "most  strangely 

come 

Are  you,  Sir  Knight,  for  I  am  one  who  longs 
[37] 


As  never  heart  has  longed  before  for  some 
Strange  world,  strange  tongue  tuneful  with 

alien  songs, 
Strange    mad    old   cities   brooding   on    their 

wrongs, 

With  unfamiliar  streets  which  smile  and  show 
Me  many  a  colonnade  and  portico 
Where  some  unclaimed  and  starry  hour  be 
longs. 
0  you  who  know  all  that  I  long  for — bid  me  go!" 

No  strange  thing  seemed  her  prayer  unto  the 

knight 

Who  knew  her  father's  little  court  by  name, 
And  pitied  her  that  all  her  beauty  bright 
Must  fail  and  fade  in  such  confined  fame. 
Swiftly  he  knelt  to  her  and  with  no  shame 
She  gave  her  hand  the  while  he  led  her  where 
Within  the  close  the  moon  took  silvery  aim 
And  lured  a  sickle  bed  of  bloom  to  bear 
In  bloom's  sweet  stead  a  birth  of  stars  pearly  as 

air. 

[38] 


The  lady  stooped  and  laid  her  little  hand 
Upon  a  dreaming  lily  whose  faint  cream 
And  gold,  stirred  at  the  fingers'  soft  demand, 
Dreamed  that  the  white  touch  was  their  sweet 
est  dream. 

The  lady  rose  and  every  opiate  beam 
Made  lucent  pillage  from  her  unbound  hair 
And  moths  brushed  lightly  through  the  saf 
fron  stream 

In  quest  of  stars.     The  lady  was  so  fair 
That  the  dusk  swooned  with  passion  and  the  light 
with  prayer. 

"Nay,  now,  my  child,"  the  knight  said  cour 
teously, 

"Would  that  your  joy  lay  in  your  castle  home, 
In  phantom  folk  who  pace  your  broidery, 
In  haunted  parchment  of  a  pictured  tome. 
But  if  you  are  of  those  whose   hearts   must 

roam 

Afar  afield  to  meet  the  hushed  advance 
[39] 


Of  spheres  and  win  from  the  blown  spray  and 

foam 

What  weaker  some  leave  to  impotent  chance 
Then,  by  my  blade,  that  blade  shall  bring  deliver 
ance  !" 

A  little  door,  covert  in  creeping  green, 
Gave  from  the  court  upon  the  room  where  lay 
The  aged  doting  nurse  who  wept,  I  ween, 
At  all  the  Lady  Margot  strove  to  say. 
But  when  it  had  proved  vain  to  weep  or  pray, 
She  rose  and  bade  her  trembling  fingers  light 
Her  taper  and  thereby  she  led  the  way 
Through  secret  gates  till,  soberly  bedight, 
The  three  set  forth  together  in  the  faery  night. 

0  many  a  league  for  many  a  day  they  went, 
And  some  magician  kind  they  were  aware 
Delivered  captive  treasuries  and  spent 
His  lavish  store  of  beauty  everywhere: 
Slim  brazen  towers  that  taught  the  sun  to 

share 

Its  shining  he  revealed ;  and  odorous  gloom 
[40] 


Packing  with  odours  the  receiving  air; 
Flowered  silken  sails  that  set  the  sea  abloom ; 
Isles  spread  with  fabrics  from  the  moon's  high 
loom. 

Sometimes  the  lady  knelt  in  a  fleet  prow 
That  flung  the  gaudy  bubbles  from  the  blue, 
And  joyed  to  hear  the  lean  blade  of  the  bow 
Plunging  the  thundering  sundered  breakers 

through ; 
Keen  swept  the  foam-born  breaths  of  salt, 

to  do 

Sweet  violence  to  her  pale  cheek;  and  all 
The  spirit  of  her  fancy  peopled  new 
The  perilous  sea's  impermanent  citadel 
That  kindled  into  spray  with  the  ship's  rise  and 

fall. 

Sometimes  she  stepped  within  a  pillared  way 
Dim  grey  with  shade  and  honey-bright  with 

sun 

Where  all  the  costly  stuffs  for  barter  lay, 
And  she  might  hear  how  many  a  drowsing  one, 
[41] 


Stretched  on  a  pea-cock  patterned  skin,  would 

run 

Soft  syllable  along  soft  syllable 
Praising  the  violet  and  vermilion 
Of  gems  and  cloths,  right  eager-tongued  to 

tell 
News  musical  with  names  to  one  who  loved  them 

well. 

Meanwhile  the  stranger  knight  was  by  her 

side 

Burning  to  serve  and  welcoming  command ; 
And  never  wish  of  hers  might  be  denied 
For  his   swift   sword  was  like  a   dexterous 

wand. 

And  by  her  side  in  all  that  alien  land 
The  old  nurse  journeyed  plaintive  and  per 
plexed, 

Condemning  what  she  did  not  understand 

And  with  all  other  understanding  vexed; 

Palsied  and  muttering  charms  for  what  should 

tide  them  next. 

[42] 


Then  it  befell  that  as  they  fared  the  knight 
Forgot  his  weariness  and  many  a  morn 
He  faced  with  joy  the  lottery  of  light 
And  walked  no  more  apart  in  mood  forlorn. 
And  now,  her  tremulous  shyness  half  outworn, 
The  Lady  Margot  oft  passed  through  a  town 
And  saw  therein  but  trinkets  to  adorn 
Her  little  bodice  and  her  silken  gown; 
And  when  he  spoke  she  looked  up  swiftly  and 
looked  down. 

O  sweet  it  was  to  see  the  two  dream  on. 
She  wistful  of  the  runes  that  he  could  teach 
Of  men  and  cities  dreamed  that  in  such  wan 
Delights  lay  life ;  and  he  for  her  sweet  speech 
With  all  its  faery  fancies  would  beseech 
And  dreamed  that  in  such  fancies  lay  delight ! 
And  all  the  time  the  heart  of  each  for  each 
Was  calling  with  the  ancient  urge  of  night 
For  night  what  time  the  lotus  of  the  dawn  is  white. 

At  length  they  came  to  a  melodioui  marge 
[43] 


Where  with   sweet  perturbation  the  moved 

sea 

Crept  lovingly  about  the  land  in  large 
Embrace  and  from  such  soft  nativity 
The  music  mounted  in  dissolving  key 
And  wed  with  wind.     There  in  a  crescent 

cove 

Sun-lorn  and  still,  the  eyes  of  each  leaped  free 
And  all  the  world  in  a  wild  silence  strove 
To  bare  its  spirit  in  their  breathed  words  of  love. 

"O  Sweet,  my  Sweet,"  the  knight  quoth  rever 
ently, 

"Lo  now  the  marvel :  That  I  wearied  sore 
On  such  a  singing  earth  as  this  to  be 
One  whom  the  gods  give  ever  one  gift  more ! 
There  is  no  spot  from  shore  to  patient  shore 
That  is  not  burdened  with  its  waiting  bliss; 
O  yet,  dear  love,  how  little  bliss  it  bore 
Were  you  not  near  to  tremble  at  my  kiss. 
At  last  we  know  the  truth:     The  best  of  life  is 
this." 

[4*] 


Slow-dipped  the  idle  sail  without  the  bay 
Sun-smitten  in  the  drowsy  afternoon; 
Unimaged  in  the  ripples'  purple  play 
White  reefs  of  clouds  on  airy    shores   were 

strewn. 

All  fairly  the  shadows  fell  and  soon 
When  gloaming  was  poured  soft  on  beach  and 

foam 

The  sea  gave  up  a  silver  shell — the  moon. 
Then  tenderly  she  turned  who  longed  to  roam 
Afar  and  whispered :    "Love,  would  that  our  way 

led  home!" 

Nearby  upon  a  rainbow  drift  of  weeds 
The  old  nurse  mumbled  at  her  prayers  and 

charms, 

And  now  her  shaking  fingers  felt  her  beads, 
And  now  in  incantation  her  old  arms 
Were  raised  to  shadowy  powers.      0    grim 

alarms 

Beset  the  gaping  ones  when  love  appears! 
And  never  lovers'  glance  or  kiss  half  warms 
[45] 


The  world  but  that  some  dotard  nods  and 

leers 

And  all  the  charnel  souls  are  tip-toe  with  their 
fears. 

Now  silently  across  the  glimmering  sands 
Slow-paced  the  lady  and  the  stranger  knight, 
And  there  were  clinging  lips  and  clinging 

hands 

And  all  the  uses  of  the  hour  were  bright ; 
But  when  they  came  to  where  the  moon  was 

white 

Upon  the  wet  weeds,  there  the  old  dame  lay 
Stark  on  the  sea-moss  and  the  labyrinth  light 
Eeceived  her  soul  that  knew  it  not.  There 

may 
Be  heaven  for  such  as  mock  at  love  but  none  can 

say. 

Upon  the  sands  the  lady  knelt  and  wept; 
Her  lover  kissed  away  her  pitying  tears; 
"Nay,  tender  soul,"  he  said,  "we  have  but  kept 
The  truce  of  nature  with  the  yester-years. 
[46] 


Now  are  the  old  things  passed  away,  and  fears 
For  the  new  day  are  vain.  Therefore  arise. 
Love  vanquishes  the  past  itself.  Love  hears 
The  siren  cities  chant  of  home.  Love's  eyes 
Have  lit  a  sullen  world  for  me  to  Paradise." 

Into  the  silver  dark  the  lovers  went, 

Over  the  silver  sea  to  golden  isles, 

Piping  their  songs  of  heavenly  wonderment 

And  fahling  the  unhaunted  age  with  smiles. 

And  ever  with  the  swift  melodious  miles 

A  sterner  harmony  breathed    through    their 

bliss ; 

"The  old  shall  be  outworn.     That  which  re 
viles 

The  gods  shall  perish  by  their  ministries. 
But  we  will  walk  with  truth :    The  best  of  life  is 
this." 


PAET  II 


I  KNOW  WHERE  A  DOVE 

I  know  where  a  dove  sits  brooding  in  the  dark 

Nested  in  leaves  the  quiet  boughs  among ; 

And  when  the  midnight  falls  I  lean  to  mark 

Her  home  where  a  star  is  hung. 

The  star,  it  does  not  know  the  secret  dove, 

The  dove  that  firefly  planet  may  not  see. 

What  lovelier  things  the  night  may  fold  from 

me 

The  watching  eye,  the  brooding  heart,  and  love. 


[51] 


PEOLOCUTOK 

O  for  one  of  the  stars  to  know  me, 

To  say  "That  is  she"  as  I  say  "It  is  there." 

0  for  my  hills  to  show  me 

If  they  care. 

But  when  I  speak  to  them  nothing  hears  me. 

Even  the  hird  on  the  near  bough  fears  me. 

The  fire  on  my  hearth  does  not  know  that  it  cheers 

me. 

.    .    .  Heart  that  waits  by  the  fire,  do  you  guess 
All  you  must  voice  in  your  tenderness? 


[52] 


WONDER 

Here  are  the  shadows  veiling  green  with  grey 
And  winning  all  the  wonder  from  the  light ; 
Here  phantom  fragrance  swells    and    fails    like 

sound; 

The  hour  distills  itself  to  dark ;  the  day 
Dreams  in  its  grave  and  lo,  the  dream  is  night. 

Beloved,  all  the  marvel  of  the  May, 
The  altared  dark,  the  petals'  solemn  white, 
The  moments  rich  with  farewell  from  the  lips 
Of  dying  moments — what  are  these  ?    We  lay 
Our  love  beside  them  and  exceed  the  night. 


[53] 


A  MEETING 

I  hear  a  sound  like  piping  and  like  sails 
In  silken  talk  with  wind  and  like  the  speech 
Of  someone  quiet  in  the  blue  of  dawn 
Upon  a  quiet  beach. 

I  see  a  light  as  when  the  last  star 
Flowers  faintly  in  the  ashen  morning  sky 
And  long  wings  appear  and  disappear, 
Wheeling  by. 

I  think  of  moons  forgotten  with  their  tides; 
I  think  of  all  the  red  of  east  and  west; 
I  hear  the  secret  stir  of  nameless  dead 
Conferring  in  my  breast. 

You  make  me  long  for  colour  and  for  song 
And  for  old  words  on  lips  I  did  not  know. 
You  make  me  dream  of  all  I  learned  to  dream 
How  long  ago. 

[54] 


HALF  THOUGHT 

()  Day  of  Wind  and  laughter, 
A  goddess  born  are  you 
Whose  eyes  are  in  the  morning 
Blue — blue. 

The  slumberous  noon  your  body  is, 
Your  feet  are  the  shadows'  flight. 
But  the  immortal  soul  of  you 
Is  night. 


[55] 


EPITAPH 

He  loved  to  lie  where  Summer  lay, 

His  roof  a  cloud,  a  bough ; 

There  stretched  full-length  to  dream  all  day. 

It  is  so  with  him  now. 

EPITAPH 

How  fair  a  hride-groom  Death  must  be. 
He  took  her  in  his  arms, 
Her  answering  kiss  now  Spring  is  here 
The  valley  leafage  warms. 


[56] 


ALIAS 

Between  the  dawn  and  the  first  breath. 
Of  dusk  there  slips  away 
Something  that  partly  is  like  death 
And  partly  is  like  day. 


[57] 


IN  ARVIA'S  BOOM 

For  Her  Cradle 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  you  ask. 

But  of  my  life  to  be 
You  who  are  wise  and  know  your  speech, 

Tell  me. 

For  Her  Mirror 

Look  in  the  deep  of  me : 
What  are  we  going  to  do? 

If  I  am  I,  as  I  am, 

Who  in  the  world  are  you  ? 

For  a  Comb  of  Ivory 
Use  me  and  think  of  soul  and  mind  and  wonder 

yet  to  be. 

This  is  the  jest:     Could  soul  touch  soul  if  it 
were  not  for  me  ? 

[58] 


For  Her  Doll's  House 
Girl  doll  would  be  a  silken  flower  and  look  as  real 

flowers  do; 
Boy  doll  would  be  a  telephone  and  have  the  world 

speak  through. 
The  poet  doll  would  like  to  be  the  doorbell  with  a 

tongue 
For  other  little  dolls  like  bells  most  sensitively 

rung. 
The  paper  doll  would  be  a  queen,  the  Dinah  doll  a 

star, 

And  all — how  ignominious! — are  only  what  they 
are. 

For  Her  Candle-stick 

Taper,  winnow  the  world  of  its  angles  and  where 
Were  sharp  things  lay  softness,  Night-god  of  the 
air! 

For  the  Chimney-place 
I  am  the  causeway  to  the  upper  places 

That  the  fire  understands. 
I  am  the  link  with  everything  unspoken. 
How  well  I  warm  your  hands. 
[59] 


For  a  Flower  Pot 
Call  sweetness  into  being. 

Let  it  live  in  me. 
The  seed,  the  soil,  the  sun  and  I 

Work  with  authority. 

For  the  Telephone 

I  the  absurdity 
Proving  what  cannot  be. 
Come,  when  you  talk  with  me 
Does  it  become  you  well 
To  doubt  a  miracle? 

Along  Her  Book-shelf 

Lay  one  hand  on  us;  but  keep  the  other  free  to 
touch  far  things  which  are  not  far — tenderly. 

Where  Boughs  Touch  the  Glass 

\ 
They  lap  on  the  indoor  shore, 

The  waves  of  the  leaf  mere. 
They  say :  We  tell  you  as  well  as  we  can, 
We  wonder  what  you  hear. 
[60] 


For  Her  Window 

I  see  the  stones,  I  see  the  stars, 

I  know  not  what  I  see. 
Things  always  say  words  to  themselves 

And  now  and  then  to  me. 
But  sometimes  when  I  look  between 

Large  stones  and  little  stars 
I  almost  know — but  what  I  know 

Flies  through  the  window  bars. 


[61] 


NOBIS 

Find  me  little  doors  of  air, 
Let  me  in  and  in. 
I  will  come  and  go  all  day.  .  .  . 
None  will  miss  me  from  my  place 
In  the  room,  the  porch,  the  lawn; 
And  yet  I  shall  have  a  way 
To  enter  and  find  quiet. 

Knit  me  in  a  garment. 

Weave  me  in  a  spell. 

I  shall  look  the  same  to  them. 

They  will  see  me  in  the  street 

In  the  shop,  the  car,  the  hall, 

And  yet  all  the  time  I  shall  be  my  own, 

In  a  place  where  they  do  not  come. 

Will  you  not,  dare  you  not, 
Is  it  never  meet? 

I  will  never  let  them  know 

[62] 


Sweet,  my  Spirit,  pardon  me! 

I  had  forgot  that  stars  are  new 

And  that  it  is  the  dawn  of  earth. 

Doors  and  garments  and  spells  I  must  make  for 

myself. 
Among  ten  thousand  of  us  I  must  find  silence. 


[63] 


HALF  THOUGHT 

I  saw  Fair  Yellow  in  the  west, 

Fair  Yellow  in  the  air, 

The  sand,  the  corn,  a  bird's  breast, 

A  woman's  hair. 

At  night 

My  little  room  burst  into  light 

Fair  Yellow  had  come  there. 

Fair  Yellow  is  a  being. 

For  when  I  said  her  name 

I  found  a  way  of  seeing 

Her  as  she  came. 

O  how 

Do  our  dull  senses  fail  us  now 

And  leave  us  in  some  elemental  shame! 

There  is  so  much  to  see  and  say 
If  we  could  find  the  way.  .  .  . 


[64] 


UMBRA 

The  birds  of  the  air  are  about  me 
For  I  am  the  conjuring  one ; 
How  they  dip  and  hover  and  circle 
Through  hyaline  regions  of  sun. 

One  has  a  wing  like  a  petal, 

One  wears  a  feather  of  flame, 

Silk  and  snow  is  the  breast  of  another 

With  a  word  like  a  flute  for  a  name. 

How  they  sing  ...  in  the  morning, 
Tilting  soft  the  light  beat  of  their  flight; 
How  their  passionate  chorales  give  cadence 
Down  the  ample  arcade  of  the  night. 

Yes,  the  songs  of  the  air  are  about  me 
Sweet  .   .   .  clear  .   .   .  but  they  sing 
Of  the  light  of  another  morning 
In  the  deep  of  another  Spring. 

[65] 


WEAITHS 

Who  hears  the  answer  when  I  cry? 

0  quiet  hours  and  empty  blue 

You? 

But  the  echoful  air  heats  hack  no  sigh. 

Who  is  glad  of  the  love  that  I  give  the  green  ? 

O  haunted  hollow  in  tide  of  leaves, 

Who  weaves 

Delight  of  mine  on  the  flowery  screen  ? 

Who  harbours  that  little  straying  ghost 
Of  our  thought  for  each  other  before  we  knew 
Love  true  ? 
Warm,  warm  in  my  heart  and  never  lost. 


[66] 


HALF  THOUGHT 

Believe  not  Sorrow,  her  who  brings 

Confession  of  the  folded  wings, 

But  seek  you,  burning,  some  frail  birth 

That  sings. 

It  is  her  spirit  beating  through. 

Handful  of  earth, 

It  may  be  breath  to  you ! 


WIND  SONG 

Horn  of  the  morning ! 

And  the  little  night  pipings  fail. 

The  day  is  launched  like  a  hollow  ship 

With  the  sun  for  a  sail. 

The  way  is  wide  and  hlue  and  lone 

With  all  the  miles  inviolate, 

Save  for  the  swinging  stars  they've  sown 

And  a  thistle  of  cloud  remote  and  blown. 

0  I  passion  for  something  nearer  than  these ! 
How  shall  I  know  that  this  live  thing  is  I 
With  only  the  morning  for  proof  and  the  sky  ? 

1  long  for  a  music  more  dear  to  its  keys, 

For  a  touch  that  shall  teach  me  the  new  sureties, 
Give  me  some  griefs  and  some  loyalties 
And  a  child's  mouth  on  my  own  .   .   . 

Lullaby, 

Babe  of  the  world,  swing  high, 
[68] 


Swing  low. 

I  am  a  mother  you  never  may  know, 

But  oh, 

And  oh,  how  long  the  wind  will  know  you, 

With  lullaby  for  the  dead  night  through. 

Babe  of  the  earth,  as  I  blow  .... 

Swing  high, 

To  touch  at  the  sky, 

And  at  last  lie  low. 

Lullaby  .... 


[69] 


HALF  THOUGHT 

When  all  the  leaves  of  Spring  turn  gold 

And  the  wind  has  no  song, 

To  whom  then  does  the  changeling  green 

Belong? 

And  who  on  what  far  waveless  shore 

Harps  as  Spring  wind  shall  harp  no  more 

In  Winter's  beat  and  roll  ? 

0  You,  who  such  forgotten  beauties  hold, 

Find  some  faint  loveliness  unseen 

And  save  it  in  a  soul. 


[70] 


TKOTH 

To-day  an  odour  lay  upon  the  air 
And  did  not  fall  from  any  mortal  flower. 
Deep  they  won  their  way  within  the  hour 
Who  laid  that  odour  there. 

A  perfume  as  of  all  that  cannot  give 

A  perfume — ivory  and  ore, 

Colour  and  cloud  and  pearl  and  marl;  and  store 

Of  the  wild  aroma  of  cave  and  hive. 

It  was  an  inner  perfume  filtering 

From  other  level  than  the  great  Midgard ; 

From  a  far  and  sphery  home  full-friendlier  starred 

Where  marvels  lift  light  wing. 

By  fragrance,  fire  and  music  do  we  prove 

The  tender  contact  of  a  lovelier  day, 

And  these  fair  guarantors  gently  outray 

From  their  far  home — these  three  and  also  love. 


[71] 


BELOVED,  IT  IS  DAYBREAK  GIST 
THE  HILLS 

Beloved,  it  is  daybreak  on  the  hills. 

Dark  glimmers  and  goes  out  in  cloudy  light. 

Faint  on  the  marge  of  night  the  watchet  dawn 

Lifts  like  a  lily  from  a  quiet  water. 

And  that  within  me  which  is  consonant 

Is  at  its  door  to  meet  God's  infinite. 

O  Love,  what  banner  shall  we  lift?    And  what 
Timbrel  and  incense  bear?     How  shall  we  greet 
God's  day,  his  hills,  his  fire,  and  join  their  beauty  ? 
Voices  reply  that  are  no  voice  but  breath : 
"Like  beauty  be  thou  nothing  save  his  vesture." 


[72] 


C  K  E  D  O 

0  you  not  only  worshipful  but  dear 
Now  have  I  learned  not  merely  majesty 
But  gentleness  and  friendlihood  to  be 
Your  way  of  drawing  near. 

And  late,  upon  a  blue  and  yellow  day, 
Wandering  alone  along  a  hill  of  Spring 

1  caught  another  tender  summoning, 
As  if  you  were  the  comrad  of  my  play. 

How  strange  that  I  have  looked  so  lone  and  far 
When  it  is  you,  Great  Love,  who  lonely  are. 
How  I  have  sought  you  in  your  cosmic  leisure 
When  you  are  eager  in  my  childish  pleasure. 

Why  there  is  no  dim  doctrine  to  believe ! 
Only  to  feel  this  touching  at  my  sleeve. 


[73] 


WHO  IS  THIS  THAT  IS  SO  NEAK? 

Who  is  this  that  is  so  near  ? 
Not  a  face  and  not  a  voice. 
But  a  sense  of  someone  here, 
Or  of  something  not  ourselves. 

At  no  altar,  from  no  ark 

Is  it  He?    O  wonderful 
In  the  day  and  in  the  dark 
To  hehold  Him  by  no  eyes. 

Is  it  They  ?    Ask  us  not  who. 
As  trees  know  when  creatures  pass, 
We  may  know  when  Those  look  through 
From  another  kind  of  day. 

He  and  They  within  our  sense. 
As  we  hope  of  bird  or  root : 
"Lo,  it  has  intelligence!" 
Hidden  ones  may  hope  of  us. 

[74] 


INMOST   ONE 

Brilliant  and  lone  she  sat 

Upon  eternal  height 

And  veiled  her  face  about. 

She  was  in  fear  of  sin, 

She  was  in  fear  of  deadly  night, 

I  saw  her  eyes  peer  out. 

I  saw  her  eyes  peer  out 

And  knew  she  was  divine, 

But  oh,  her  stedfast,  dreadful  gaze 

And  her  importunate  doubt. 
She  did  not  make  me  word  or  sign 
Or  turn  away  her  face. 

She  did  not  make  word  or  sign, 
But  as  she  watched  me  err 
Her  eyes  grew  cold  like  the  dark  star 
And  her  body  ceased  to  shine. 
[75] 


I  could  not  breathe  for  the  breath  of  her 
Was  frost  of  Winter  and  fire  of  war. 

Her  body  ceased  to  shine. 

I  dare  not  let  her  die. 

I  opened  my  heart  to  the  sun 

And  I  breathed  her  breath  for  mine. 

Behold,  that  Inmost  One  was  I, 

And  I  was  the  inmost  one. 

I  opened  my  heart  to  the  sun. 
O  colour  and  line,  and  birth 
Of  wonder  and  word  and  light ! 
Through  love  and  her  I  have  won 
The  earth  within  the  earth 
And  the  sight  that  is  more  than  sight. 

O  colour  and  line  and  birth, 
Birth  of  an  order  new, 
Of  a  life  that  is  more  than  my  own  .  .  . 
Birth  that  is  your  birth  .  .  . 
Birth  in  me  of  you 
O  God,  brilliant  and  lone ! 
[76] 


STOKE  CELL 

Let  me  not  see  thee,  Lord  God  of  my  essential  life, 

where  thou  art  not. 

Let  me  not  look  upon  colour  and  pray  to  thee  be 
lieving  thee  to  be  colour. 
Let  me  not  go  in  silence  or  in  dream  and  dream 

thee  to  be  that  silence. 
With  the  failing  of  the  light  let  me  not  thrill  at 

the  intricate  touch  of  that  spirit 
Who  films  light  to  shadow,  and  kneel    believing 

ecstasy  to  be  prayer. 
From  my  dreams,  from  the  siren  singing  and  the 

imperious  call, 
From  the  blinding  joy  and  the  august  mystery  of 

simple  beauty 
Wilt  not  thou,  compassionate,  0  deliver  me,  faint 

for  beauty. 

God!     If  I  were  praying  to  be  delivered  from 
thee  .  .  . 


LIGHT 

We  do  not  touch  the  texture  of  the  light. 

But  one  may  see  with  a  secret  eye 

The  things  that  are. 

Then  we  divine  that  we  need  not  die 

To  win  our  heritage  of  sight. 

As  well  this  earth  as  any  other  star. 

Waking  from  dream  there  trails  an  alien  air, 
A  residue  of  other  suns  than  these; 
We  know  that  we  have  walked  an  inner  way, 
Have  met  familiars  there 
And  kept  our  step  in  exquisite  concord 
The  while  we  spoke  some  unremembered  word. 
And  over  all  there  lay 
Light  whose  vibrations  ran  to  other  keys 
Than  those  we  woke  upon.    Light  whose  long  play 
Was  dappled  colour  delicately  kissed. 
[W] 


Strange  fires  rayed  from  strange  regions  of  the 

Lord. 

Light  from  the  sun  behind  the  sun  fell  where 
We  went  to  keep  our  tryst. 

In  sleep  and  in  the  solitary  dusk  there  come 

Fine  lines  of  light  upon  the  lowered  lids, 

A  flush  that  lets  us  in  the  heart  of  night 

And  hints  dear  wonders  to  be  there  at  home ; 

As  if  the  universal  fabric  bids 

Its  human  pattern  know  that  all  is  light. 

In  snow 

Have  we  not  seen  the  whiteness  smitten  through 

With  sudden  rays  of  glory,  vague  with  veils, 

Of  some  beloved  hue  that  pales 

To  earthly  rose  and  violet  and  blue? 

Oh  you 

Who  pulse  within  that  light — we  know,  we  know  1 

Soon 

From  without  transition  night 
We  would  come  into  this,  our  own. 
Then  the  dim  tune 


The  which  we  almost  hear, 

The  low-keyed  colour  and  the  word 

We  have  not  heard, 

All  these  we  shall  be  shown, 

And  infinitely  near 

To  God,  breathe  for  our  breath  his  light. 


[80] 


HALF  THOUGHT 

I  close  my  eyes  and  on  the  night 

A  face  looks  in  at  me. 

It  speaks  a  word  like  burning  light, 

I  answer  joyfully. 

It  dims  away.     The  word  is  sped. 

I  know  not  what  we  two  have  said. 

The  old  dark  sparkles  like  a  star. 

And  when  shall  we  be  touched  with  sight 

To  find  the  things  that  are? 


[81] 


COSFTOUKS 

I  am  glad  of  the  straight  lines  of  the  rain; 

Of  the  free  blowing  curves  of  the  grain; 

Of  the  perilous  swirling  and  curling  of  fire; 

The  sharp  upthrust  of  a  spire; 

Of  the  ripples  on  the  river 

Where  the  patterns  curl  and  quiver 

And  sun  thrills; 

Of  the  innumerable  undulations  of  the  hills. 

But  the  true  line  is  drawn  from  my  spirit  to  some 

infinite  outward  place  .   .   . 
That  line  I  cannot  trace. 


[82] 


PART  III 


NEWS  NOTES  OF  PORTAGE, 
WISCONSIN 

I 

THE  KILBOUKN"  ROAD 

In  June  the  road  to  Kilbourn  is  a  long  green  hall, 

A  corridor  of  leafage  pillared  white 

By  birches  and  with  wild-rose  patterns  on  the  wall, 

And  all  melodious  with  the  fluid  fall 

Or  lift  of  red-winged  blackbirds  fluting  mating 

cries. 

The  very  air 

Is  visible,  not  by  the  light, 
K~ot  by  the  shades  that  drift 
And  dip,  but  by  an  essence  rhythmic  with  the 

flood 

That  flows 

Not  in  the  sap,  not  in  the  blood, 
But  otherwhere. 
And  of  that  essence  grows 
All  men  see  in  the  air  of  Paradise. 
[85] 


He  lay  upon  a  little  upland  slope 

Deep,  deep  with  grass. 

And  when  I  saw  his  head  above  the  green 

Where  I  must  pass, 

The  battered  hat,  the  squinting  eyes 

Blinking  the  westering    sun,  I    felt    a    sting   of 

fear 

Alas,  that  in  June's  delicate  demesne 

A  watching  human  face  can  teach  one  fear. 

So  then  I  spoke  to  him,  gave  him  good  day, 

And  seeing  his  gun  said  what  I  always  say 

Meeting  a  huntsman :    "Friend,  I  hope 

You  have  killed  nothing  here." 

He  stared  and  grinned.    And  with  his  grin 

I  felt  his  trustiness.     So  when 

He  scrambled  down  the  bank  and  followed  me, 

I  waited  for  him  as  my  kind  and  kin. 

He  was  a  thing  of  seventeen.    And  men 
Compounded  in  his  blood  had  set  him  here 
Wizened  and  hump-backed.    But  his  little  face 
Held  something  of  the  one  he  was  to  be 
[86] 


In  some  eternity. 

He  talked  as  freely  as  a  child.    He'd  shot,  he  said, 

At  a  young  wood-chuck.    Now  his  gun  was  broke, 

And  it'd  cost  a  dollar  and  a  half 

To  mend  it.    Then  I  spoke 

About  a  little  kerchief  made  of  lace 

Lost  on  the  road  that  day.    He  turned  his  head. 

"Did  it  have  money  in  it,  Lady?" — with  quick 

grace 

Caught  from  some  knightlier  place. 
And  when  I  asked  him  what  he  read 
He  tried  to  rise  to  all  my  speech  awoke. 
"A  person  give  me  a  book  a  while  ago. 
Oh,  I  donno 

The  name — the  cover's  off.    I  got,  I  guess, 
Two  pages  done.    Time  the  stock's  fed 
I  get  so  sleepy  I  jump  into  bed." 
— And  with  this,  for  defence,  a  rueful  laugh. 
I  named  the  town  not  two  miles  distant.     No, 
He  hardly  ever  went  there.    Motion  picture  show  ? 
His  eyes  lit.    Several  times  he'd  been. 
[87] 


War  pictures  was  the  best.    He  liked  to  kill  ? 
He  hung  his  head.     "No,  but  I  never  will 
Shoot  pups  or  kittens  when  they  want  me  to. 
War's  different."    School?    He'd  seen 
Four  years  of  that — well,  four  years,  more  or  less. 
Dad  needed  him — dad  had  so  much  to  do. 

So  then  I  faced  him  and  his  need  to  live. 

I  put  it  plain :    "But  you  ? 

What  do  you  want  to  do  ?" 

His  answer  lay  within  him,  ready  made. 

He  met  my  eyes  with  all  he  had  to  give. 

"I'd  like,"  he  said,  "to  learn  the  artist  trade." 

Questioned,  he  told  me  bit  by  little  bit. 
He'd  had  a  horse  that  died — he'd  painted  her. 
He'd  painted  Tige,  the  dog.     The  pigeon  house. 
The  fence  that  crossed  the  slough.  The  willow  tree. 
Would  he  let  me  see? 

Oh,  well — they  wasn't  much.  He  couldn't  stir 

The  paint  right,  and  he  didn't  have  enough. 
All  that  he'd  done  was  rough. 
[88] 


I  tried  to  spell  his  dream, — to  see  if  his  face  lit 

At  flame  of  it. 

He  only  said:  "Mebbe  I  couldn't  learn." 

And  his  eyes  did  not  burn. 

("Perhaps,"  I  thought,  "there's  nothing  here  at 

all.") 

"Dad's  going  to  have  me  paint  the  house,"  he  said. 
I  questioned  where  he  led. 
"Yellow    and   brown,"    he    answered.     And   my 

fancy's  fall 

He  must  have  fathomed  in  my  face  for  a  slow  red 
Mounted  and  swept  his  cheek.     His  eyes  sought 

mine, 

His  look  was  piteous  with  a  kind  of  light. 
"I  don't  like  that.     They  picked  it  out,"  he  said. 

"I  wanted  white." 
And  all  his  tone  was  shame. 
The  craftsman  wounded  in  his  craftsman's  right 
In  ways  he  could  not  name. 

He  took  the  cross-road.    Where  I  saw  him  go 
Wild  fever-few  made  narrow  paths  of  snow 
[89] 


Through  the  flat  fields  of  dying  afternoon. 

Bravely  in  tune 

With  every  little  part  as  with  some  whole 

A  red  wing  answered  to  an  oriole 

And  met  a  cat  bird's  call. 

The  sun!     The  sun!     The  road  to  Kilbourn  like 

a  long  green  hall! 
The  very  air  a  spirit  like  our  own 
So  nearly  shown 
That  one  could  almost  see. 
The  veil  so  thin  that  presence  was  outrayed. 

But  all  the  great  blue  day  came  facing  me, 
And  crying  from  the  vault  and  from  the  sod : 
"Oh  God,  oh  God. 
'I'd  like/  he  said,  'to  learn  the  artist  trade!' " 


[90] 


n 

VIOLIN 

One  night  on  some  light  errand  I  sat  beside 

The  cooking-stove  in  Johann's  sitting-room. 

Within  there  was  the  cheer  of  lamp  and  fire, 

The  stove-draught  yawning  red  and  wide, 

The  table  with  its  rosy  cotton  spread, 

A  blue  chair-cover  from  a  home-land  loom, 

A  baby's  bed. 

And  in  that  odour  of  cleanliness  and  food 

Johann,  the  labourer  worthy  of  his  hire 

For  seven  days  a  week,  twelve  hours  a  day 

At  some  vague  toil  "down  in  the  yard." 

"Hard? 

What  o'  that?    Look  at  the  luck  I've  got  to  keep 

the  place 
And  draw  my  pay." 

[91] 


He  had  been  strong 

And  still  his  body  kept  its  ruggedness. 

Yet  he  was  old  and  stiffened  and  he  moved 

As  one  who  is  wrapped  round  in  something  thick. 

But  O,  his  face, 

His  face  was  like  the  faces  that  look  out 

From   bark   and   bole   of  trees   all   marred   and 

grooved, 
All  laid  about 

With  old  varieties  of  silence  and  of  wrong. 
Such  faces  are  locked  long 
In  men,  in  stones,  in  wood,  in  earth, 
Awaiting  birth. 
And  Johann's  face  was  less 
Expectant  than  the  happy  dead  awaiting  to  become 

the  quick. 

His  wife  said  much  about  how  hard  she  tried. 
She  chattered  high  and  shrill 
About  the  burden  and  the  eating  ill. 
His  mother,  little,  thin,  half -blind  and  cross, 
With  scarlet  flannel  round  her  throat, 
[92] 


Put  in  her  note, 

Muttered  about  the  cold,  the  draught,  her  side — 

Small  ineffectual  chants  of  little  loss, 

With  never  a  word 

Of  the  great  gossip  which  she  had  not  heard: 

That  life  had  passed  her  by. 

The  little  room  beset  me  like  the  din 

And  prick  of  scourges.     All 

At  once  I  looked  upon  the  spattered  wall 

And  saw  a  violin. 

A  hall 

Vast,  bright  and  breathing. 

In  the  upper  air 

A  chord,  a  flower  of  tone,  a  quiet  wreathing 

Along  the  lift  and  fall 

Of  some  clear  current  in  the  blood 

Now  delicately  understood, 

Till  all  the  hearing  ones  below 

Are  where 

The  voices  call. 

0  now  they  know 

[93] 


What  music  is.    It  is  that  which  they  are 

Themselves.    Infinite  bells, 

Of  silence  in  a  little  sheath.    Deep  wells 

Of  being  in  a  little  cup.    Star  upon  star 

Veiled  save  one  reaching  ray. 

And  see !    The  people  turn 

And  for  a  breath  they  look 

Out  into  one  another's  eyes 

And  shine  and  burn 

Wise,  wise, 

With  ultimate  knowledge  of  the  goal 

That  seeks  one  whole. 

And  how 

Eternity  begins 

And  ever  is  beginning  now 

A  thousand  hearts  leam  from  the  violins. 

"My  back  ain't  right.    My  head  ain't  right.    I'm 

almost  dead. 

Fill  the  hot  water  bag.    I'm  goin'  to  bed  .  .  ." 
"Ten  pairs  of  socks  I've  darned  to-night.     I  try 
To  do  the  best  I  can  .  .  ." 
[94] 


I  put  the  women  by. 
" Johann,"  I  said,  "you  play  ?"  He  shook  his  head. 

"I  lost  it,  loggin' "  he  held  up  a    stump   of 

thumb. 

"I  took  six  lessons  once,"  he  said. 
I  sat  there,  dumb. 

From  out  the  inner  place  of  music  there  had  come 

Long  long  ago, 

Some  viewless  one  to  tell  him  how  to  know 

What  waits  upon  the  page 

To  beat  the  rhythm  of  the  world.    He  heard ;  and 

tried 

To  stumble  toward  the  door  graciously  wide 
For  other  feet  than  his. 
"I  took  six  lessons  once,"  he  said  with  pride. 
This 
Was  all  we  gave  him  of  his  heritage. 


[95] 


Ill 

NORTH  STAR 

His  boy  had  stolen  some  money  from  a  booth 

At  the  County  Fair.     I  found  the  father  in  his 

kitchen. 
For  years  he  had  driven  a  dray  and  the  heavy 

lifting 

Had  worn  him  down.    So  through  his  evenings 
He  slept  by  the  kitchen  stove  as  I  found  him. 
The  mother  was  crying  and  ironing. 
I  thought  about  the  mother, 
For  she  brought  me  a  photograph 
Taken  at  a  street  fair  on  her  wedding  day. 
She  was  so  trim  and  white  and  he  so  neat  and 

alert 

In  the  picture  with  their  friends  about  them 

I  saw  that  she  wanted  me  to  know  their  dignity 

from  the  first. 

[96] 


But  afterward  I  thought  more  about  the  father. 

For  as  he  came  with  me  to  the  door  I  could  not  for 
bear 

To  say  how  bright  and  near  the  stars  seemed. 

Then  he  leaned  and  peered  from  beneath  his  low 
roof, 

And  he  said : 

"There  used  to  be  a  star  colled  the  Nord  Star." 


PROSE  NOTES 

I 
THE  BUREAU 

In  anger,  in  irritation,  in  argument,  what  happens 

to  you  and  me  ? 

Something  fine  weaving  us  round  is  torn  open. 
Something  fine  permeating  us  is  drawn  from  the 

veins. 
Presences  waiting  to  understand  us  retreat  to  a 

farther  ante-room  of  us. 
Little  cells  are  i-nfiOTmm.iTiica.b1y  sealed. 

All  this  happened  to  me  and  some  strange  progress 

was  halted  until  something  in  me  could  be 

repaired. 

The  whole  race  halted  with  me. 
The  light  of  the  remotest  star,  do  you  imagine  that 

it  did  not  know  ? 

Innumerable  influences  ceased  to  pour  upon  us  all. 
And  it  was  because  someone  left  the  attic  window 

open  and  it  had  rained  on  an  old  bureau. 
[98] 


II 

MINUET 

I  went  from  Fifth  avenue  into  the  Plaza  on  a 
sunny  Winter  morning. 

There  on  a  little  stage  it  was  Spring.  A  shep 
herdess  walked. 

Beside  a  stream  girls  were  tying  garlands.  A  harp 
was  touched. 

The  shepherdess  and  her  lovers  danced  a  minuet  on 
the  bright  emerald  of  that  shining  field. 

Down  by  Brooklyn  Bridge 

ISTow  this  sharp  contrast  will  shock  you,  but  we 

must  not  interrupt  the  minuet- 

I  know  a  place  down  by  Brooklyn  Bridge  where  a 

woman 

(Young,  once  pretty,  still  with  tender  eyes) 
Carries  water  up  five  flights  of  stairs  to  do  washing. 
[99] 


I  watched  the  minuet  and  I  thought  about  that 

woman. 

Did  God  create  two  worlds  ? 
Or  has  man  made  a  world  ?    And  can  man  see  that 

his  world  is  good  ? 


[100] 


in 

THE  DISFISTG  KOOM 

I  laid  the  blue  dishes  on  the  table. 

The  dining  room  was  still  and  sunny. 

Zinnias  were  in  a  brown  basket, 

The  grape-fruit  plant  was  glossy  in  a  window. 

Skilful  fingers  had  wrought  the  border  of  the  cur 
tain. 

My  grand-mother's  blue  pitcher  was  on  the  side 
board. 

There  were  chestnut  leaves  in  the  brown  rug. 

Barometer  and  thermometer  recorded  miracle  on 
the  rose  wall. 

Dark  wood  paneled  and  beamed  us  in  together. 

As    I    worked    these    exquisite    patient   familiar 

things  let  me  within. 
They  let  me  look  with  their  eyes,  feel  with  their 

beating  pulses  of  hurrying  molecules. 
[101] 


T  perceived  how  locomotion  and  consciousness  and 
self-consciousness  have  advanced  us. 

By  what  means  shall  we  go  forward  now  ? 

Does  anyone  wonder  at  my  slow  patience  as  I 
wonder  at  the  slow  patience  of  these  exquisite 
and  familiar  things? 


[102] 


IV 
PAKADISE  AND  PURGATORY 

Do  you  ever  go  into  your  room  and  find  familiar 

things  unfamiliar. 

Muslin  curtains  thinned  by  moonlight, 
Open  window,  candle,  mirror,  expectant  chairs, 
Long  smooth  waiting  bed — do  they  not  bear  an 
other  aspect 

As  if  you  had  divined  them  doing  their  duty, 
As  if  to  be  inanimate  clearly  involved  a  process, 
As  if  they  were  surprised  at  their  creeping  task 
of  going  back  to  earth,  rising  in  plants,  quick 
ening  into  beings. 

That  is  the  great  work  of  those  patient  things. 
That  is  why  they  look  so  intent. 
So  with  all  your  preoccupation  in  dressing  for 
to-day 

[103] 


Your  object  is  the  same  as  that  of  these  humble 

ones. 
Only  you  have  reached  a  paradise  where  you  can 

hasten  your  way. 
But  these  others  are  yet  in  purgatory. 


[104] 


V 

AT  LEAST  .  .  . 

On  that  day  of  wild  joyous  wind 

I  filled  my  being  with  warm  hurrying  air. 

The  pouring  sun  was  in  my  heart  like  water  in  a 

well. 

I  ran  in  the  pulsing  tonic  currents. 
And  all  the  time,  melodious  in  my  mind, 
There  beat  and  strove  the  measure  of  a  tune. 
Then  for  a  breath  I  understood:     Glory  without 

and  flame  within, 

They  passioned  to  belong  to  each  other. 
I — I  was  the  interruption. 

From  that  time  I  gave  my  body  to  be  a  harp : 

Wind  of  the  world  without,  breath  of    the    soul 
within, 

I  will  try  to  let  you  interflow. 

August  Presences,  at  least,  at  least  may  I  not  hin 
der  you. 

.        [105] 


VI 

KOSES 

Only  once  have  I  been  sure  that  a  rose  answered 

me. 
Always  the  reticence  of  roses  was  the  aloofness  of 

the  peak 

A  rose  would  never  admit  me,  speak  to  me, 
Listen  to  me,  reply  to  me,  do  other  than  suffer  me. 
But  one  day  after  our  barbarous  fashion  I  lifted 

a  rose  to  my  face. 
Suddenly,  thrillingly,  the  rose  replied.     It,  too, 

touched  at  me. 

We  had  something  to  exchange. 
What  am  I  to  do  that  this  shall  be  true  of  every 

flower, 
Every  animal,  every  stone,  every  manufactured 

article, 
Every  created  object — yes,  even  every  person  of 

the  world  ? 

[106] 


VII 
SPKING  EVENING 

I  heard  her  at  the  telephone. 

"Do  come  early/'  she  was  saying,  "while  the  light 

lasts. 
The  dog-wood  is  in  blossom,  the  mountains  are 

wonderful. 
It  is,"  she  said,  "too  heavenly.     Do  come,  while 

the  light  lasts.  ..." 

Outside  on  the  veranda  I  could  see  the  light, 
I  could  see  the  dog-wood  in  bloom  and  a  mountain 
And  more  I 

What  else  there  was  I  am  trying  to  tell : 
Not  colour  for  I  am  no  artist.     Not  glamour  for 

I  am  not  in  love; 

Not  any  more  magic  than  I  am  accustomed  to; 
Not  presence  I  think — though  perhaps  after  all 

it  was  presence. 

[107] 


But  something  else  was  there,  exquisite,  insistent 
When  she  came  back  I  looked  up  to  see  if  it  met 

her. 

But  she  only  said:     "It  is  too  heavenly. 
I  hope  they  will  come  while  the  light  lasts." 
I  knew  that  she  did  not  see  what  I  saw. 
But  what  did  I  see.  .  .  . 


[108] 


VIII 

SECOND  SIGHT 

Can  the  world  have  been  created  for  you  and  me 
to  do  all  that  fills  our  days: 

Care  of  a  house,  lawn,  shop,  billion  dollar  business  ? 

These  are  not  enough  for  us. 

Can  the  world  have  been  created  for  the  nations 
to  do  all  that  fills  their  days : 

Trading,  peacefully  penetrating,  warring, 

Or  when  the  mood  changes,  motoring  down  one  an 
other's  roads,  decorating  one  another,  bowing 
at  one  another's  courts? 

These  are  not  enough  for  the  nations. 

What  is  the  world  for? 

Once  in  an  apple  orchard  at  mid-day 
I  had  a  moment  of  second  sight  as  I  watched  a 
child  at  play. 

[109] 


She  shone  with  light  like  a  holy  child.     She  was 

pure. 
She  was  growing.     She  was  nothing,  nothing  but 

love. 

She  was  all  that  we  might  he,  we  and  the  nations. 
She  was  all  that  we  shall  be. 
Come,  let  us  face  it ! 


[110] 


IX 

DOES  SOMETHING  WAIT? 

Go  and  wait  somewhere.    Take  no  book,  no  paper, 

no  solitaire  or  needle  task. 
Nay  but  forbid  yourself  also  that  you  reckon  the 

profit  or  plan  a  feast 
Or  discern  dust  on  the  lamp; 
That  you  consider  to  whom  to  sell  or  what  to  wear. 
Go  and  wait  somewhere,  with  forgotten  muscles. 

Now  does  something  wait  with  you,  glad  and  wel 
coming  that  you  are  free  to  turn  to  it? 

Then  you  have  bread  that  you  know  not  of  and  it 
is  brought  to  you. 

Or  do  you  merely  sit  with  an  hundred  fibres  in  you 
pressing  to  be  gone  ? 

Then  you  are  in  danger  of  starvation. 

By  this  means  we  may  almost  know  what  we  ara 
[111] 


X 

DOORS 

At  the  edge  of  consciousness  is  a  little  door. 

What  goes  by  ? 

Now  a  wing  of  brightness,  of  colour,  of  something 
out  there  that  I  love  more  than  I  am  accus 
tomed  to  loving. 

Now  fares  by  a  delicate  shadow,  patterned,  fleet, 
that  I  long  to  know  more  than  I  am  accus 
tomed  to  knowing. 

There  must  be  so  much  more  to  love  and  to  know 
than  the  little  loves  and  the  little  knowledge. 

Then  someone  knocks  at  my  door. 

Thou! 

The  wing  of  brightness,  the  delicate  shadow  were 

but  the  sign. 
What  am  I  to  do? 

I  will  find  my  way  to  the  edge  of  my  consciousness, 
[112] 


I  will  gain  the  door,  I  will  have  my  freedom, 
I  will  love  and  know  and  be  all  being. 
Thou  art  the  liberator.     Why  it  is  true.  . 
"Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock." 


[113] 


XI 

LEVITATION 

Three  times  that  day  came  the  sense  of  levitation. 
As  if  court-house  walk,  walnut  shadow,  a  length 

of  sunny  lawn  let  her  go  by  with  no  tribute  of 

her  touch. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  wonderful  would  happen. 
She  waited,  prepared  for  the  vision. 
The  day  flowered,  ripened,  mellowed,    fell   upon 

night. 

~No  presence  opened  or  signaled. 
Then  she  went  to  embosom  that  which  the  hours 

had  left  her. 
She  faced  her  day,  and  her  day  gathered'  itself  as 

a  living  thing  with  a  voice  and  deep  eyes. 
It  said,  I  was  wonderful. 

Yet  the  only  thing  to  happen  that  day  had  been 
this: 

[114] 


Old  Edgerton  Bascom  came  to  the  porch,  selling 

buttons. 
She  bought  from  him,  picked  her  dahlias  for  his 

wife. 
He  went  away,  comforted,  restored  to  self-respect 

by  her  purchase. 
Perhaps  when  levitation  comes  it  will  be  a  matter 

of  this  kind 
Eather  than  of  calculation  and  reckoning. 


[115] 


XII 
ENCHANTMENT 

In  this  house  I  perform  all  as  seriously  as  may 

be  required. 

I  accept  my  desk,  my  little  tools,  lamp,  paper. 
I  write  in  the  one  language  which  I    have   been 

taught  and  about  the  few  things  with  which 

I  am  familiar. 
I  eat  the  little  round  of  food  which  it  is  said 

will  nourish  my  body. 
About  my  books  I  am  docile  and  I  learn  from 

them. 

I  look  no  farther  than  my  window  permits. 
When  I  wish  to  emerge  I  go  obediently  to  the  door 

as  if  there  were  conceivable  no  other  way  of 

exit. 
At  night  I  fall  into  sleep  as  if  that  were  eternal 

purpose. 

[116] 


I  suffer  from  absence,  I  submit  to  distance, 
I  am  subject  to  innumerable  influences, 
I  am  open  to  them  all  with  a  sober  face. 

But  all  the  time  I  have  knowledge  that  I  am  some 
thing  other ; 
That  all  these  things  shall  ultimately  have  no  more 

power  over  me. 
That  I  consent  to  them  because  of  some  delicate 

exigency  in  this  moment  of  eternity. 
Even  now  I  am  often  free  of  them. 
There  was  the  day  when  I  moved  among  the  hills 

and  lost  every  sense  of  difference  from  them. 
With  the  crowning  cloud  and  the  far  filament  of 

the  river  I  found  myself  in  common. 
The  air  was  vocal  with  all  that  is  identical  and  in 

that  hour  it  offered  to  me  my  identity. 
I  became  everything.     I  had  no  question  to  ask 

for  it  was  I,  too,  who  was  answering. 
The  hour  dissolved.     The  ultimate  star  was  my 

neighbour. 

[117] 


.   .   .  Suddenly  I  remembered  myself  down 
in  the  valley  moving  about  in  a  house. 

And  I  perceived  that  for  years  I  have  been 
chanted. 

I  am  listening  to  be  set  free. 


[118] 


THIS  BGOK  IS 


ON  THE  LAST  DATE 


STAMPED  BELOW 


REC'D  U 

NOV    5'63-3PM 


NOV231990 


LD  21-50m-l, 


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